


how dear to me (are all things that die)

by chirality (chiralBeast)



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Hades' Not So Good Parenting, Implied/Referenced Depression, Implied/Referenced Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Post-Credits Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27316843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiralBeast/pseuds/chirality
Summary: Even rocks older than the Titans must erode, some time. As the shades release their collective breaths, lovers reuniting, contracts rescinded— death, too, reflects upon itself.
Relationships: Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 287





	how dear to me (are all things that die)

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of things to note:  
> \- This fic has major spoilers for post-credits  
> \- It is based on my own struggles of getting past Than's first locked heart even after beating the Big Bad 10+ times. Than, please.....

It is something that Thanatos has learned between the war and the famine. When his job kicks up in intensity to barely allow handfuls of breaths at any given minute, it helps to keep a routine, a cyclical repetition of motions not unlike what the mortals practice under the rise and fall of Helios’ chariot.

This is why, when the sun falls and the battalions retreat, Death sighs along with the South Wind. It is a signal that he may return to the House if at least for a brief flicker, a moment of quiet reserved just for himself.

And sometimes, he will arrive just as the river Styx coalesces. It is just as well that Thanatos does not have the time to ponder on whether or not this is something he prefers; Zagreus’ disposition means he has no choice but to take every immediate moment in stride.

It starts with the sound of wet footsteps upon marble. Zagreus digs his heels into the ground and so will always wake Hypnos with the force of it. His brother will shoot up and gather his thoughts with remarkable speed only possible from a lifetime’s worth of practice. And he will have bright nothings to say because the House has need of them, always; and Zagreus will listen with a patient smile. There will be petals caught in Hypnos’ bird-nest hair which manifest no matter how many times Thanatos tries to pick them out. But— ah. Zagreus appears to delight in it. It had been his idea, after all.

An acknowledgement, and the conversation shifts places.

Cerberus, then. Zagreus will coo unintelligibly to the hound, and the hound will lean into his clever fingers like it instinctively knows what to do. _Yeah, I know. Hope he hasn’t been working you too hard. I’ll try to get something for you next time._ There is a softness to the animal that is at odds with a memory, from darker times unfathomably old; of something leaner, sets of ruby eyes illuminating the spittle on its jowls and the cruel edges of its teeth.

Now, Cerberus is too tired to even go on its hunts. But it also looks— happier. Its coat is gleaming, rolling over fat that hadn’t been there before. Zagreus is spoiling him. Charon told him as much, and he has no reason to doubt him.

The hound whines. Zagreus’ feet sear the rug, and this precedes the gentle rise and fall of voices. The conversations he has with Achilles are hushed things. They are private and not meant for his ears.

So, Thanatos will wait. The river Styx has a sanguine, ageless quality that makes it easy to rest his mind against.

The ringing in his ears has yet to fade.

“Hey, Than.”

Zagreus’ shoulder presses against his own. It bumps clumsy against his bones, rough-cut like the rest of him.

“Long day, I take it,” Thanatos inquires. Zagreus is prone to being tactile after a particularly cruel death.

“Depends,” Zagreus says. “What time is it right now?”

A slow shift of subterranean rock. Thanatos’ mouth twitches. “Zagreus, I know you consider your persistence to be one of your better traits. But I am going to do the favour of telling you this now— that joke simply does not get funnier the more you say it.”

“Aw. Eighteenth time’s the charm?”

“Absolutely not.”

Zagreus laughs. Thanatos’ shoulder is beginning to burn. It’s no secret that Zagreus runs warmer than any of the Chthonic gods, and he would not be surprised if it is comparable to a mortal’s. It makes him wonder, then, whether Zagreus’ body is prone to the same failings mortal bodies experience; of hypothermia, heat stroke and its like.

Zagreus lets out a soft noise. His shoulder shifts away. Thanatos fails to suppress a start when he feels fingers brushing over his knuckles, hesitant at first, then more confident when Thanatos doesn’t draw back— and he watches, dulled by confusion and exhaustion both, when Zagreus tightens his fingers to lifts his hand up.

“That’s blood,” Zagreus says. He turns Thanatos’ hand this way and that in the light. It is done with such fragile care, fingers gliding gentle as he guides them over the contours of his skin, that Thanatos is almost offended by how touched it makes him feel.

“Obviously not mine,” Zagreus continues. He stops his examination to level Thanatos with a look. _Then whose?_

“Some corpse. Does it matter?”

“Uh, yeah. I’ve never seen you with blood on you before. Made me think you were the meticulous sort— not hard to believe when you’re so particular about your job.”

Thanatos doesn’t know what to say to that. Zagreus powers on regardless.

“I’d even assumed you detested the stuff! Which is hilarious for a Death Incarnate, by the way.”

“It would be, if it were true.” Thanatos says. He thinks he should move his hand away. They’re both staring at it now, like some prized statue of Hades’. “As it is, you can put that idea away with every other fanciful story you feed to Orpheus.”

Zagreus gives a sheepish smile. “You’ve caught on to that, huh?”

“Hard not to. Orpheus does have a— certain tenor. Makes it travel through these walls.”

Zagreus lets go. Thanatos’ fingers curl a fraction before returning to his side.

“It’s just strange, is all,” Zagreus says. “Because I get my blood on you all the time, and you don’t seem to care about it. Or,” he amends himself, “let me be more specific. You freak out about me bleeding. Not so much on the getting it all over you part.”

Thanatos’ answer is immediate. “I did not ‘freak out’.”

Zagreus makes a face.

“- And that was just the one instance. You’d caught me off-guard, not knowing you had the capacity for it in the first place.” Thanatos wishes that Zagreus would drop his expression. It is ever changing by the second. “And look— now we all know how exceptionally good at it you are.”

Zagreus crosses his arms at that. A smile drags across his face, slow. “Go me, right? Turns out I’m not a good for nothing, after all.”

“Zagreus,” Thanatos warns.

Zagreus’ smile quirks up to reach his eyes. “I’m just kidding. But— hey. Now you’ve piqued my interest. How’d it happen?”

“I—’ Thanatos frowns. “I don’t remember.”

“Oh.”

Thanatos’ brows keep their tension. He didn’t think it a problem until Zagreus had brought it up, and now it sticks to his mind, unshakable.

“So much happens on the surface. It’s hard to keep track,” he says to the air.

He tries to turn his attention back to the river Styx. It laps solitary without any other sounds to drown it out— and it’s an odd feeling, having the House to just the handful of them. Neither his Master nor the Queen are there to fill it with the weight of their existence. Orpheus is away; it is likely that Achilles will follow soon. Despite what the whispers may imply, the House is not falling apart, not exactly. But that is not to say that Thanatos has settled on any other way of describing it.

“Well—”

“I should leave.”

Their voices overlap. A fleeting procession of emotions pulls at Zagreus’ face in the empty space that precedes it, bright fading tense fading neutral.

“Yeah. Alright,” he says, quiet. “If you want to talk about it, you know where to find me.”

 _Why would I want to talk about it?_ Thanatos thinks, unmoored.

He watches the way Zagreus’ Adam’s apple bobs. The scythe in his hands turn hot and cold at once.

“Zagreus,” he says. His voice doesn’t catch over it this time. “Take care of yourself.”

He leaves before any more of Zagreus has the chance to impart itself onto him.

  
  


*

  
  


When Persephone returns to bear the same undying crown as Zagreus’, the river Styx that dries upon the walls begin to smell of spring, of April showers.

Even rocks older than the Titans must erode, some time. As the shades release their collective breaths, lovers reuniting, contracts rescinded— death, too, reflects upon itself.

For if it is true that time is a god with the power to clarify, then Thanatos may justify the trepidation he feels towards the heavy, shapeless enormity of his feelings. It hangs suspended in his periphery and deepens even now with every new thought or emotion. And it’s textured in such a way that, if he were to try and pull out the exact moment between non-being and _being_ , he thinks it would unravel messy in his hands, a sight as striking as a tapestry or body being torn apart.

It is exceptionally easy to ignore at times. But this doesn’t mean he hasn’t tried to ground it, anchor it to some memory that could give reason to the increasing sense of alienation he feels towards himself. Because even time doesn’t quite pass the same anymore— _gray-static-nothing-nothing-nothing-toomuch—_ and Thanatos dares not question what this implies for his immortal body; not so soon, not ever.

So instead, he calls upon the most lucid, striking memories he can find. This is his first attempt towards reclaiming this foreign part of himself.

  
  


*

  
  


His earliest memories are ruled out at once, as they are unremarkable, on the whole. Sometimes he’ll see an echo of it during those rare moments he finds sleep. A cold light shining upon the ocean, lapping eternal against marble; and in the far distance where the waters are at their most still, the horizon giving way to an endless stretch of stars.

Even now, he isn’t exactly sure of where it is that Nyx had nursed them. The harder he tries to recall, the more elusive his thoughts become. Slippery as if imbued with an intrinsic will to avoid being remembered.

It doesn’t surprise him, then, that against such an inky dark backdrop, his visits to the House stand out in such stark clarity. The gold trimmings had filled him with wonder— he hadn’t thought such vivid colours could exist at all. Then there had been the dining hall, impossibly large to a child-sized individual who needed to take several leaps and hops to reach from one side of the room to the other. From Hades’ glittering jewels to Zagreus’ laugh echoing down the corridor, everything about the House is tactile and immediate— even if there are shades that stain the corners of his vision.

It’s even better when Nyx is there, who watches over them when she isn’t occupied by her own duties. She encourages hide and seek games worthy of the godlings, wherein she will cloak the hider in a veil of shadow. This makes it so that combing through the obvious hiding spots isn’t enough— a pair of eyes can easily be tricked into thinking a patch of darkness is just that, empty and bereft of a certain god-shaped form.

Sound and touch becomes the only tools left at their disposal. Zagreus breathes louder than he needs to, which he learns after Thanatos is accused of cheating. Thanatos is good at hiding and keeping still, so he has taken to practising clumsiness in order to keep the game moving.

It should grow stale when the House can only harbour so many places to hide. As it is, they reach a point of knowing each other’s patterns so intrinsically, it simply becomes an excuse to stumble into each other. It goes like this; an exclamation and a _gotcha_ followed by breathless laughter.

Thanatos had always marvelled at how the air felt different under Nyx’s influence. Hades’ eyes hold a certain dead weight that follow them wherever they went— and it is only within the subspace of darkness studded with stars that he notices the weight in his chest at all, and how it bleeds out of him during those short moments they carve for themselves.

This is the only catch to his memories. Those silent rules that the House abides by. On some days they are allowed in the administrative chamber, and on other days they are not. It is perfectly fine to have sweets on the premises, until it isn’t. Thanatos finds this so confusing that he has taken to asking Zagreus on each individual matter— should they be speaking in whispers? Is it alright to harry the shades, or is today a bad day?

And sometimes, when he asks, Zagreus laughs at him like it should be obvious. This makes him go quiet until Zagreus picks up on it and tries to make him smile through increasingly silly acts. It always works; but only because he is so unerringly persistent.

  
  
  
  


**A prayer to Zeus**

_[accompanied by the slaughter of; five goats; two oxen; the stench of alcohol thick in the air]_

It is a bruised mass that splits apart in the heavens. The silver light of winter pours from it, illuminating a plain blackened with horses, and spears shivering like so many schools of fish darting in and out of its depths.

An appreciative noise comes from Thanatos’ right.

“A lot of men will die today,” Ares says. The god’s presence is something that is felt more than seen. He smells of stale blood, of copper left to tarnish in rain. It is nothing like the freshly spilt blood of soldiers. “And when they reach the halls of Hades, they will be found wanting of luck, not skill.”

Thanatos’ eyes weighs the odds. Ares’ assessment isn’t wrong. “Perhaps,” he says.

Ares’ smile glitters. “I’m right, aren’t I? Visibility is poor. The mud clings to their legs. No doubt this is Zeus’s doing.” He turns to regard Thanatos. It’s simple mirth that pulls at the edge of his lips. “You’re still going to try, I presume.”

“Of course,” Thanatos says, undeterred.

Ares’ thumb traces the cruel edge of his sword.

“Well. Good luck with that, my friend.”

A herald cries out. It is torn away in the wind. Thanatos dematerialises to join the mortals down below, the hair of his nape rising to meet the charged air, smelling of ozone— and it’s over so quickly, it almost feels like a trick. For when the clouds pull together and the blinding glare subsides, it leaves behind an entirely different landscape, like two different paintings stitched together. The ground is broiling with scores of men scooped out of their chariots and left to writhe, spears caught between their ribs, jaw, stomach—

Thanatos is already there. He gets to them before the march of hooves and wheels which devours human souls without thought. For if death is certain, let their final moments be swift and merciful. Let the promise Elysium sedate them, and make them easy to shepherd.

He doesn’t have long before the clouds to unfurl once more. Thanatos grits his teeth against the searing light, the image of Ares, with that ghastly smile, welling up in the back of his mind. He whisks himself away just in time to avoid getting brained by the flying legs of a horse, but he’s back at it as soon as his underworld-tempered eyes adjust.

He falls into a dance, of sort; the patchy weather proves challenging to work with. As Helios drags his chariot across the sky, Thanatos’ scythe weaves a silver ribbon around him.

  
  
  
  


**A prayer to Hermes**

_[spoken over a blood-sick, tear soaked body; a prayer for a swift delivery back home]_

A part of Thanatos has always known that the love Nyx has for him and Hypnos is duty-bound. It is a position that he not only understands but respects, when he too is similarly bound to his realm, his siblings, and his role as Death Incarnate. If Nyx’s responsibilities include searching him out in the deepest reaches of Tartarus after an unsuccessful shift attempt, or to knit him a companion animal to stave off loneliness during those long, empty hours; then it is only natural that Thanatos should uphold his own end of their familial duties by following the path threaded for him by the Fates.

It’s more than can be said for most gods on Olympus. They have a penchant for neglecting, banishing, or leaving their offspring to be fostered by mortals. Schemes always follow, and betrayals, too— while prophecies are near impossible to avoid.

In this way, Thanatos’ sentiments are uncomplicated where Nyx is considered and as such, can be considered unimportant when it comes to understanding the nebulous weight of his past.

Though, there is one instance, catching stubborn at the back of it—

It happens during the thick of his growth spurt. Thanatos knows he is finally beginning to shape into his role when he can hold his scythe for hours at a time before tiring. His fingers are still too short to wrap around it comfortably, and he can only manage clumsy arcs around his head that do nought but stir up dust.

Still, he knows it isn’t too long at all until he can start his job in earnest. Charon takes him up and down the river of Styx in the meantime, so that he may become acquainted with death in all its forms before he is asked to become the very incarnate all it.

The experience thrills him. Or at least, he thinks it does. He doesn’t like how chatty the shades can be. Their fingers seek his cloak and his arms as they try to bargain or plead or beg their way out of Hades’ domain. They make cases based on their children, their wives, husbands, until Thanatos learns of every little thing that constitutes a good deed by their sworn words. Some even argue among themselves on who has the right to leave should the opportunity arise, and Thanatos dislikes them the most— the clamouring, the pettiness and voices pitched too high— and he doesn’t realise just how tightly he is holding his scythe when Charon lets out a loud growl that frightens every soul into submission.

He tells Nyx about the experience at some point. It makes her regard him with a strange expression he cannot quite decipher.

“There are different kinds of deaths, little one, and different souls that follow it,” she replies. Her hand stills in his hair, eyes growing distant with thought. “Based on this information, I will try to come up with an arrangement with Charon and Hermes.”

He remembers staring, wide-eyed, at that— until Nyx graces him with a smile. “When the time comes,” she explains, “it would put me at ease to know that you were working with souls who are better suited to your strengths. That is all.”

Thanatos frowns. He’d found her wording strange, for death is death, and cares not for arrangements. He takes too long to decide on whether he should be offended by her words, so he doesn’t get the chance to ask her about it; of what his strengths actually are.

  
  
  
  


**A prayer to Ares**

_[spoken over an urn, exchanged for a body, exchanged for the dreaded words; ‘what a master of battle he was’]_

It’s always the brief, burning encounters that are the hardest to forget. And when it comes to Zagreus, there isn’t any other kind.

Weapons circle their feet. Graceful arcs of blood carve a path that leads straight to the heart of the memory. He remembers feeling reasonably exhausted; Thanatos does not consider himself unfit by any means but Zagreus is getting sharper, leaner. It means he needs to watch the time between their encounters and the prince’s escape attempts— this could be one of the last of their impromptu encounters.

They manage a brief conversation. A lull has Zagreus peering at him, arms crossed, Stygius thoughtlessly struck into the dirt.

“Oh,” he lets out. “Already, huh?”

The words snag against Thanatos’ mind. “Pardon?”

“You get this look on your face,” Zagreus says. He presses his fingers to his own brows. “Something that’s between stressed and annoyed. I see it every time you spend a bit too long away from your job,” and here, he lets out an easy smile, “and a bit too long with me. I try not to be a bad influence but— you’ve always been on top of it, so it’s not like I have anything to worry about.”

Thanatos freezes. He becomes uncomfortably aware of every muscle on his face. “That… doesn’t sound right.”

“Hey, I get it. I won’t keep you this time.”

Zagreus’ smile does not leave his face, but something is slightly off-kilter, something tense. Maybe it’s in his stance, or the slight pull to his brows.

It is with some small semblance of shame that Thanatos leaves. He knows he won’t like the answer; finds himself sick of stumbling upon answers, and wonders if he’ll ever get used to the shock that ripples through his body, twisting, bitter.

  
  


*

  
  


Thanatos arrives in the same moment Zagreus stumbles out of the Styx. His frame is shaking with a hacking cough, arms crossed and shoulders hunched as if to brace himself from a strike breaths away from landing.

Thanatos is there at the steps before Zagreus reaches it.

“What was it this time,” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. He offers a hand, but Zagreus waves it away. He chooses instead to flop onto the floor, heedless of the waves that lick at his stomach.

“Pretty sure it was a punctured _something_. Think one of my ribs was poking into it.”

“Really,” Thanatos says. He looks at Zagreus’ prone form for a heartbeat. Then he shuffles his scythe, deliberating on where best to put it. He eventually manages to fold it by his side and kneel next to Zagreus. An impulse has him reaching out a hand, and— fingers halting a fraction— settles it over his chest.

The contact makes Zagreus grin. It pinches at the corners of his eyes. “Ow,” he says, even though they both know perfectly well the wound has healed anew.

Thanatos’ heart squeezes; an alarmingly reflexive thing. “Trust you to make a job out of something so troubling. Not just for me but for the entire House.”

“No need to tell me twice, Than.” Zagreus’ shoulders go lax as if he were made to lie on this very marble. “I did start to wonder to myself, you know; ‘how many more times do I need to die to see you again?’ And here you are.”

Thanatos’ warmed fingers twitch. “Here I am.”

Zagreus’ body heaves with a deep sigh in response. It is a body incapable of retaining scars by courtesy of his immortal blood.

Thanatos wonders if he prefers it this way. Wonders if Zagreus would stop this charade if his scars were flared for all to see, from head to neck to chest to his very feet. Silver star bursts, burns and gauges. Every single bit etched onto his skin without compromise.

“We should do something to mark the occasion. Grab a drink or— take a walk in the gardens, if that’s more to your taste. I hear the mortals do it all the time.”

Thanatos’ lips twist. “You know I can’t stay for too long.”

“I know,” Zagreus says, disarmingly matter of fact. “But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about, so— hope you can stick around for that long, at least?”

“Yes. Alright.”

Zagreus closes his eyes. He doesn’t budge from where he lies on the floor. A blazing petal from his laurel shifts loose then, displacing to begin its path to the ground.

Thanatos doesn’t think about it. He reaches out and plucks it with his thumb and forefinger— careful so as not to unsettle a single strand of hair.

Zagreus’ eyes crack open just as he manages to stash away the keepsake. A lazy smile tugs at his lips. “This is nice, actually. Maybe I should leave you hanging more often. Encourage you to stay a bit longer.”

Thanatos scoffs. He tries not to look too guilty with his hands still folded in his cloak. “Don’t even think about it.”

Zagreus’ smile widens. “Hang on. You get to do it during every one of our conversations but I can’t? That doesn’t sound very fair, now, does it.”

Thanatos’ chest is becoming uncomfortably full. His eyes flick towards his scythe. “If that’s really all you had to say, Zag, I’ll be taking my leave now.”

“Wait, Than—”

Zagreus sits up in a rush. It causes the Styx to spill over the stairs, soaking the ends of his chiton, and a hand comes up to catch his elbow— a clumsy attempt to keep him in place.

Thanatos raises his brows. Zagreus is breathing quick as if this action alone has spent him, almost as rapid as the pulse in his own ears.

“Before you leave. This is for— this is for you.”

Thanatos knows what is coming before he sees it.

“Zagreus,” he says, pained.

“Later. You can admonish me all you want, then. But in the interests of saving time— take it, please?”

Zagreus’ skin is a rich, golden colour behind the glass.

“You don’t need to do this.”

“I know.”

He knocks it against Thanatos’ hands. The contents swirl, dizzy.

“Whether or not I take it changes nothing.”

“I know.”

Their fingers brush. The bottle of ambrosia is heavy on his lap, but his chest is heavier still.

The tips of Zagreus’ ears have coloured into a striking red. Thanatos finds that he is no longer able to hold his eyes.

“I don’t understand you,” he says. It’s not exactly a statement but it’s not a plea, either.

“That makes two of us,” Zagreus laughs, hollow. The Styx splashes from some sudden movement. “What I meant to say is— I don’t understand myself. Not most of the time, anyway. So...”

Something dull cushions Thanatos’ mind. His fingers dig into the glass but find no purchase. “That doesn’t surprise me. You’re always throwing yourself from one mindless act into another. The fact that you insist on doing this yourself, even with the Queen’s return— it’s clear that nothing ever seems to be _enough_ for you.”

He looks up in time to see Zagreus physically recoil, his face flinching away as if struck by searing midday light. Thanatos at this moment decides that he has seen enough. He feels as if he has to fight for every breath, and what should that imply, for a Death Incarnate?

As the ground dissolves beneath him, Zagreus insists on calling out, even now.

  
  


*

  
  


Time does not pass linear and ordered like it does on the surface. When Thanatos closes his eyes, he can feel his body rock to and fro as if he were still on the river Styx. Charon tells him that this is normal. Tells him that he is finally ready to start collecting souls on his own.

Even so, Thanatos makes sure to manage one more visit to the House before his birthright can unfold in full. He doesn’t realise just how much he misses it, misses Zagreus until he sees him. The halls are exactly as he remembers them, not one chair or statue or jewel replaced. Hades is there, with his same frown and rings and papyri propped in front of him. But Zagreus— he has been growing in his own way just as Thanatos has. He is all lanky bones and sinew from having already shed his baby fat. He has quick hands and an even quicker tongue, with a smile that slips over his face so easy, Thanatos almost finds it unsettling. What need does he have for a silver mask that’s all teeth and upturned eyes?

The thought follows him as they spend the day refamiliarising themselves with each other, where the first thing they get talking about is their upcoming jobs. Zagreus is loathe to talk about his but shows a marked interest in Death. For he sits, eyes animated as he asks, which bones hurt the most to break? How many drown? How many are poisoned?

It is at this moment that Thanatos decides that death isn’t all that much of an interesting topic, after all.

Still, Zagreus persists despite his misgivings. The breaking point comes when he starts a conversation of how funny it would be if his father found him gurgling on the floor with a punctured lung, all because of some stupid accident or another. Thanatos sees rather than feels himself snap, pulling Zagreus aside to tell him how it isn’t funny at all.

Zagreus’ eyes go wide for a fraction. Then it’s replaced by mischief, and he sticks out his tongue— but he doesn’t bring it up again.

It’s not just in this instance where Thanatos struggles to keep up with Zagreus’ sudden shifts. There is an impulsiveness that boils under his skin, making him prone to sudden lashes of anger that are quickly soothed over by apologetic smiles. Thanatos is so bad at predicting Zagreus’ moods that it makes him wonder whether the boy has actually done more growing than him; that maybe it is he himself who is lagging behind, because faced with an inability to come up with any other explanation, it is the only truth he can cling onto.

  
  
  
  


**A prayer to Nyx**

_[indeterminate time; indeterminate space; shrouded by a blanket of stars. The plea is too fragmented to parse]_

There is one more, from the House. Before their jobs can separate them in full.

On the side of Hades’ house is a garden. It is different from the gardens of Elysium, because the plants don’t have the same ghastly shimmer of a facsimile kept alive by magic. Instead, they are pest-bitten, misshapen, and smell of growth and decay so strong, it’s almost overwhelming if he gets too close to the bars.

The reason for its existence is something he has pondered over in secret. Nyx forbids him to ever talk about it; Zagreus’ eyes roll straight off it quicker than oil over water. He theorises that it is perhaps something his Master had installed as a reminder to himself; proof that his domain is not infallible despite being pressed by sheets of earth impossibly old, surrounded by ghosts and glory put to rest— because life, somehow, can still take root and grow. Thrives, even, if given the opportunity.

Thanatos supposes this is wise, if true. But there’s a distant, red streak in his mind that isn’t interested about that— and it only grows with each passing visit to the House.

Zagreus hasn’t been himself. His Master calls him _sluggish_ and _dull_ , but Thanatos knows better. So does Nyx who has been spending more and more time in the House. Achilles, too, who speaks to him in soft tones during their training sessions, pulling the boy aside to exchange words rather than steel.

When Thanatos sees their efforts, he finds himself with a bright, burning need to do something himself. It’s a hard thing to keep compressed in his chest— suffocating, almost unbearable if he lets himself focus on it too much.

So, peering into the gardens, the bars hot around his hands— his mind sparks off an idea. It’s envisioned so vividly, his thoughts practically glow with it.

He wants to offer Zagreus a quiet rebellion, shared just between the two of them.

“Than?”

Thanatos’ arms strain under their weight. He isn’t sure what they’re called, but they’re certainly bright, a deep, ruby red that almost rivals Zagreus’ vibrance.

“Zagreus— quick. They’re for us. I was thinking we could...”

There’s something he sees in Zagreus’ face that makes him trail off. Something brittle that pools deep in his stomach.

“Where did you— Than, where did you get them?”

Thanatos explains. They’re just words rolling off his tongue. Zagreus only gets paler and paler. It’s like he is seeing through him— there’s a glassiness to his eyes and a stumbling haste to his speech that is utterly unlike the Zagreus he knows. He remembers swallowing through the strange lump that had formed in his throat while his vision swims with mis-matched eyes, and Zagreus is speaking quick in hushed tones, pressing them into the alcove as if to dissolve within the shadows itself—

_This is what you will do—_

Thanatos phases through the bars once more and puts the fruits back into place. Seeing as they cannot be un-picked, Zagreus tells him to scatter them in such a way to make it look as natural as possible, as if they had fallen by their own devices. So this is what he does, feet tripping over roots as he frantically tries to find the right places for them. He keeps Zagreus in his periphery all this time— where even from this distance, he can see the whites of Zagreus’ eyes as he keeps watch.

And he cannot help it— he absorbs Zagreus’ mood which rolls off him in waves. It’s probably the most frightened he’s ever felt in his life. He’s breathless by the time he phases back into the House, at which Zagreus grabs him by the arm to wrench him into his room— only to promptly grab a towel and scrub at his dirt-stained knees.

“He’ll notice,” is the only explanation Zagreus gives. “He always notices.”

Their breaths are shallow against the stale darkness of the room.

“Zagreus,” Thanatos says, and it’s the only thing he can think to say, “what was that about?” but Zagreus is silent and doesn’t say anything more; just scrubs, and scrubs, until Thanatos gives up and wrestles the towel out of his grip to do the job himself.

And it’s this quiet moment that will haunt him the most. He’ll pick it apart and wreck his mind over it for, oh— hours, decades, months— what does it matter, to a child such as he just beginning to taste bitter immortality?

Nyx is unable to get an answer out of him. Neither can Hypnos, who pries into his dreams but doesn’t find anything.

Thanatos keeps his mouth pressed shut whenever he is asked about it since. His silence has little to do with the stubbornness most fault him for. In the end, it comes down to the simple matter of his inability to put a name to what he feels. Because below the layers of fear, anger, shock— all Zagreus’ own, all second-hand emotions— is profound confusion he’ll only begin to understand years later, when the silver bars are pulled back for all to wander in.

  
  
  
  


**A prayer to Hades**

_[unintelligible; Death doesn’t get to this one in time]_

The man’s arms splay awkwardly beneath him. His chest is bent inwards, damage of this magnitude only possible from the hind legs of a horse. He is in too much pain to work his vocal chords— his eyes are hazy and already beginning to grow dull.

Thanatos kneels on the grass. Horses and chariots and shield bearers all swerve to form streams around them. The seasoned leather of the soldier’s armour is damp under his fingers, and Thanatos thinks, chants, _I’m here, I’m here,_ as the mortal’s body begins the laborious process of shutting down. For even now, thoroughly broken as it is, the body is stubborn. Clingy.

He adds pressure to his fingers until he can feel the fragmented bones beneath. Senses are dulled, nerves are sedated. All power borrowed from Hypnos— while Nyx’s grace follows him as ever, casting a veil that gives the air a muted, sluggish quality.

He’s almost done when a muscle spasms and snaps. Some semblance of recognition ripples over the man’s face. He works his mouth with an almost desperate fervour, making spit gather at the corner of his lips— and the sight is so unseemly that Thanatos’ hand twitches. _What’s the point of this?_ He thinks.

“You’ll be sent away to Elysium,” he says to the animated face. “Save your breaths for then.”

The man, perhaps, cannot hear or comprehend. He flails and struggles through his whole journey towards his last moments.

  
  
  
  


**A prayer to Achilles**

_[spoken in hushed tones, a locked-up training ground standing as their witness; the rare instance of a god humbling themselves to a mortal]_

Thanatos relights the candles. Some appear to burn faster than others, and will need replacing. He makes a mental note to bring in more for next time.

He turns to the sheets. It is an effort to straighten them out with the weight pulling at it. The hefty length of his hair sticks clammy against his skin, and it bothers him more than he’d like. He considers if maybe the room’s stifling warmth is Zagreus’ doing— but it would be impossible for one body to heat a room as big as this.

When Thanatos finishes, he folds his hands. There is not much more that he can do now.

Nevertheless, the words stumble out of him. “You’ll tell us, won’t you?” 

The laurel is barely visible in this dim light. The steady rise and fall of his chest creates but a brief whisper beneath swaths of fabric. 

“If you get any dreams, or nightmares. My brother and I can help with that. You’ll tell us if your sleep is anything but restful.”

The aftermath of it still lies dead in the administrative chamber for all to see. The ripped papyri, toppled bookshelves, ink wells flung against walls to shatter. His Master has burdened Zagreus with labels and words he cannot take back. His Master has torn Zagreus from his role and Zagreus has not left his bed since.

Every soul in the House had seen it; how unsustainable of a cycle it was. To say that Zagreus had committed himself to Achilles’ teachings is an understatement; it’s as if he had been trying to test whether it is possible for an immortal body to break under a singular, burning focus. For he is so exhausted by the end of his self-imposed training sessions that he barely manages a sentence, let alone keep steady eye contact with any of them— and when his battered, spent body finds the bed, sleep doesn’t so much as find him but wrenches him into a state of repose, as if in a desperate attempt to reach some kind of equilibrium after being stretched and kept pinned beyond its natural limits.

It means he will oversleep; it means he will drag himself to the administrative chamber, where his father will be waiting— and whatever happens within, Thanatos doesn’t know— only that it drives him to throw himself to his training with increased fervour

Thanatos thinks Zagreus deserves more than what his father makes of his birthright. But this is just the beginning of it. Helios’ chariot could topple from the heavens to strike the earth and it would not have mattered. The underworld has little care for such events, and Thanatos, even less. The unblinking pool of hell could bleed into the mortal realm and he will return; relight the candles, straighten out the sheets, smooth back his hair.

But nothing could have prepared him for the utter lack of words he finds himself with, now. They all feel inappropriate; crude, never enough.

  
  


*

  
  


Selene’s moon is still and unblinking behind a thin covering of clouds. The snow falls in steady puffs, catching on Thanatos’ cheeks and arms. It doesn’t take long for his skin to go damp and cold.

Objects come into focus, slow. There are pools of shining silver and pine trees bowing under the weight they bear. It takes him a bit of searching, what with the blood trail already dusted over.

“Found you,” Zagreus says. His voice is hoarse, but his teeth are bared to the moonlight, ever skewed up from a smile.

Thanatos kneels to lift Zagreus’ upper body out of the cold, the ash from his dissolving laurel catching on his chiton as he does so.

“If that’s how you want to call this,” he replies. It had been Zagreus who called him by his keepsake, after all.

It is a cold hand that presses against clammy skin, chasing away overstrung nerves in its path. Thanatos had always thought that Zagreus looks oddly small on the surface, but it is perhaps the other way around; the halls of Hades are vibrant, but nothing can match the mortal pallor distilled in Persephone, and in turn, Zagreus, making him look larger than he ought to.

Zagreus sighs. “That’s better,” he says.

Snow catches on his eyelashes. Thanatos palms the trembling skin just below, and his eyes flicker in response.

Thanatos takes in a long breath. “I wanted to apologise,” he says. The air that sears his lungs is warm, earthy. 

“Hm?” Zagreus shifts his head. It takes a moment too long for his eyes to focus.

“I shouldn’t have said the things I did. It was wrong of me.”

A choked laugh comes out of Zagreus. “You don’t need to pretend just for my sake. Everything I’ve done up to this point has been for me, after all.” His own breath rattles at the edges, vital just as the rest of him. “I’m selfish. I know I am.”

The effort appears to spend his body. His eyes dull for a brief moment, his breaths leaving shallow so that a mist hangs between them. Thanatos places a thumb against the base of his neck and feels the fluttering heartbeat there.

“Zag. Can you hear me?”

Zagreus wraps a hand around his wrist and squeezes.

“Because what you just said, it’s not true. The House feels so different now, I almost don’t recognise it. That’s how I know— that’s how I know it’s not true. Do you understand?”

Zagreus’ hold weakens.

“It took me longer than it’d ought to for me to see it. Because what you did, leaving without telling me like that… it hurt. More than I let myself believe, I think.”

The burn in his eyes tells him that the sky is lightening. Constellations will hang, fragment, then dwindle, for even those immortalised in the heavens cannot escape Helios’ march. And the light that pours on Zagreus sparks upon his hair— but it will do little to warm his skin. His chest shudders; he isn’t far from his final breath. 

“Always so stubborn,” Thanatos says, voice warm as the air they share. “I’ll be there, Zag, in the House.”

Thanatos, gingerly, guides Zagreus’ hand to his chest. A blanket of hush descends over them. It is not the same quiet as bequeathed by Nyx, nor the quiet that Selene’s chariot brings forth upon the mortal realm.

He wraps his arms around Zagreus’ body. The snow continues to fall.

Thanatos would like to believe that the silence they share is something unique between them.

  
  
  
  


**A prayer to a lesser-known god**

_[accompanied by the offering of the following: a heart, displaced, still-beating; nourished and warm by the care of gentle hands]_

The room is yellow and pitched too-bright. Thanatos’ fingers are sore from curling them into his chiton.

“We’ve checked the west wing and the east hall.” Zagreus bites his lip in thought. “And it wasn’t there in the administrative chamber, or my room…”

Thanatos quietly despairs. The sound of stone being slowly decimated fills the room. Cerberus is teething, to the alarm of everybody except perhaps Zagreus. It sits by their side, gnawing on one of the dining table legs with desperate fervour. It is the third table it has eaten through in a week.

Zagreus looks at it. Then his mouth presses in a way that Thanatos has come to recognise; the determined set and the hardening of his eyes bringing him more anxiety than relief.

“Oh, _gods_ ,” Zagreus says.

It’s a wonder Thanatos’ clothes haven’t torn from the force of his grip. “Zagreus, you don’t think—”

“What else could it be? We’ve looked everywhere.” Zagreus kneels by the beast and lays a hand on one of its heads. “Cerberus, boy, speak the truth. Did you take it?”

Cerberus whines but otherwise continues its enthusiastic gnawing.

“By the name of Hades, I implore you to tell me!”

Cerberus’ ears prick up at its master’s name. A particularly large piece of stone snaps and crackles in a burst of white.

“Zagreus,” Thanatos says, “give up. If Cerberus had really gotten to it, then—” he cannot make himself say it. The admission dissolves on his tongue like ash. “... Then there’s no point.”

“No,” Zagreus shakes his head, “there has to be another way.” He brings up another hand, so that they just frame one of Cerberus’ heads. Its body is big and cumbersome and already shadows their own, which is unsurprising given its growth is not hindered by immortality.

“If you won’t tell me, then I— I’ll make you.”

Zagreus braces his fingers around Cerberus’ mouth. He pushes back its jowls to reveal its flashing teeth, and with no small amount of effort, stretches it up and further, so that its tongue lolls out, and Zagreus—

Thanatos nearly loses his heart in his throat.

“Zag!”

He lurches forwards, arms wrapping around Zagreus’ waist. He scoops him out before Cerberus’ mouth has the chance to snap shut around his hand. And the momentum carries them— his feet skid over marble, the ceiling tipping over, dizzy— and it drives the breath out of his lungs, the way Zagreus’ weight traps his own as they end up in a heap of limbs and clothes.

He gathers his senses just as something rumbles against his chest— Zagreus’ laughter, coming in peals. It is bright and shivering against the walls.

“That was fun!” he shouts, eyes dancing against candlelight. “The other heads— we should check those too!”

Thanatos balks. There is a dull ache in his elbows from bouncing them against the floor, but the pain feels very far away. “How can you say that? How could you just— you didn’t even stop to think...” Thanatos slams his mouth shut. For some reason, his bottom lip is starting to wobble.

Zagreus scrambles up to his knees in a rush. “Oh. Oh!” He takes Thanatos’ hands, fingers slotting quick around them. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten. Maybe we’ve got it all wrong — maybe it’s actually outside of the House. We can start with Tartarus, if you want. That’s where Meg and her sisters live, I think. They’ll help us look.”

Thanatos shakes his head but cannot seem to make himself say anything.

“Or— or— maybe we should start in Elysium. From what I’ve heard, all the best shades go there. They’ll welcome us and we could even stay a bit longer after finding Mort, do a little sightseeing. It’ll be fun!”

Thanatos doesn’t know why Zagreus is so determined to find Mort for him. Losing it hadn’t even bothered him that much. He feels just fine. The only reason why he doesn’t feel that way right now is because Zagreus is making such a big fuss about it.

“It’s fine,” he insists. Zagreus is looking at him with eyes that are always too-raw, too intense. He wishes Zagreus would stop; wishes he could look away.

“Than,” Zagreus says. “We’ll find it, you’ll see.”

Zagreus squeezes his hand. Something warm slides down Thanatos’ cheeks, then, shocking and quick. It makes him start, and— abstractly, he presses a hand to it and finds it coming away damp.

Zagreus appears surprised, too. He reaches out and wipes away the fresh beads that threaten to spill, Thanatos instinctively squeezing his eyes shut at the clumsy force of it.

Zagreus brings his hand back to his lap. He is looking at it with blank-eyed confusion. A thought furrows his brow.

Thanatos watches as Zagreus puts his hand up to his mouth.

A giggle catches him by surprise. “Did you just...?”

“Huh?” Zagreus’s thoughts appear to catch up to what he just did. “I just— oh.” His face starts to glow. It is redder than Thanatos has ever seen him. “I thought it’d be different with you, since... um. Like how our blood is different, and...”

“Zag,” Thanatos says, triumphant, “that’s _gross._ ”

“ _You’re_ gross.”

Thanatos shoves Zagreus to the floor and rushes up to his feet before the boy can retaliate. And Zagreus shrieks, hellish, overjoyed. Cerberus barks and trips over their feet. Happy for an excuse to chase, to run.

  
  


*

  
  


Zagreus’ hair is still wet by the time he reaches Thanatos. He skips through Hypnos, rushes by Cerberus, and passes a nonplussed Achilles with his brows raised. 

“Than,” Zagreus says, breathless. “The gardens— with me?” he then pauses to press his hands over his chiton as if suddenly remembering he’d just crawled out of the Styx. “What I meant to say is— there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Thanatos feels the chill of his winter-soaked clothes. “Alright,” he says. 

Every god is cunning in their own way. He wonders if Zagreus is aware of this, of how he is unable to say no when he’d just seen him like that; desperate and falling apart in the snow.

The gardens look familiar enough. Pillow-soft grass, and the light of Ixion particularly diffused to cast a soft glow over the leaves. They find a place to sit by a patio in one of the corners of the gardens— Thanatos delicately folding himself over the steps, Zagreus knocking himself back with a loud sigh. 

Zagreus then reaches back. He plucks a pomegranate without any preamble.

“I know,” Zagreus says, perceptive to a fault. Thanatos had been unsuccessful in suppressing a flinch. “That’s how I felt about it too, at first. But you know what helped? Ransacking Father’s domain with absolutely zero regard for any possible repercussions. There’s poms scattered everywhere, even up close to the surface. I’d recommend it to you, but— it’s not quite your style, is it?”

“Why, how did you know, Zagreus,” says Thanatos, dry. He focuses his attention into relaxing his shoulders.

“You’re missing out. It’s the only thing I can stand to eat in this place,” Zagreus shuffles closer until their knees press. “And by that I mean— it’s absolutely delicious.”

Thanatos can smell it. Its fragrance is a subdued thing, nowhere near as overpowering as the orchards scattered around on the surface.

“Here, I’ll show you. Watch.” Zagreus brings it up to his mouth. With the same enthusiasm distilled into every swing of Stygius, he takes a large bite that _cracks_ through the still air. Thanatos’ eyes trace over the liquid that drips from the pomegranate, rivulets running parallel to his veins.

It disappears into the grass. Thanatos looks up. Zagreus smiles, aching, raw.

“Try it for me, won’t you?”

  
  
  
  


**A prayer to Thanatos**

_[spoken in private by the shadows of pomegranate trees]_

The skin is— it’s bitter. And the seeds are tough, catches at his teeth. It is an effort to get through, but the taste that follows isn’t bad. Tart, with an undercurrent of sweetness.

“It’s alright,” he says. He passes it back to Zagreus, who takes another bite from his own half of the fruit. “You said you wanted to speak to me about something.”

“So I did. It’s about this, ah, thought I’ve had for a while,” Zagreus says around the mouthful. Thanatos interrupts to scold him, and he quirks a smile. _Sorry. Hard habit to break._ “And I figure now’s the right time to say it. Considering that, strictly speaking, there never really _was_ a right time to admit something like it.”

“How ominous,” Thanatos says. He stares at the stray seeds scattered on Zagreus’ chiton. “Let’s hear it, then. I don’t want you complaining about how many times you’ve had to die to say it.”

Zagreus laughs. “Nothing too ominous, I hope.” The pomegranate is offered back. Thanatos takes it, delicate. The fruit is starting to run messy.

“Am I being arrogant, or presumptuous, when I say that I want you to be selfish when it comes to me?”

The bite had been a small one, but it proves hard to swallow all the same.

“It depends on what you mean by that,” Thanatos settles on.

The fruit is back in Zagreus’ hands. He begins to pick out individual seeds. “I feel as if all I do is take from you, while you never ask for anything in return.” And here, he takes out another bite— abolishing the notion of his side and Thanatos’ side of the fruit in doing so.

“My growing stash of nectar would like to disagree. Ambrosia, too. It’s starting to get rather ridiculous.”

Zagreus wipes an arm over his mouth. His smile is bashful. “You know what I mean. You’re not shy. And I appreciate that you’ve been honest with me throughout this whole mess— it’s made my life a hell of a lot less complicated than it could’ve been. But I feel like— oh, how should I put this.” Zagreus lets out a sound that is something between frustrated and impatient. “I think this is all just a convoluted way of me saying that I’ll always be here for you if you ever need me. Because I’m not leaving any more. I promise.”

“Alright,” Thanatos says, “that’s… good to know.” He pauses to gather the thread of his thoughts. “Though, you should know— if it’s simply obligation or some misplaced sense of guilt that’s making you stay, then I won’t have it.”

“It’s not. I truly do want to be here, Than.” 

Thanatos breathes out. He thinks it could be relief that rises in his chest, but it’s too full, too heavy for that. It’s funny for Zagreus to speak of selfishness, when it isn’t long ago that he’d asked himself on what it is he could possibly offer to keep Zagreus. Because when he sees his open, bleeding heart, it is only natural that he might want to hold it, as if to stem the flow with his very own fingers— and if Zagreus’ burning disposition makes him yearn for something more, always better, his pulse drumming up a momentum that rivals even Hermes— well, can he be blamed for wanting to lean into it, so that he may feel it on his own skin?

He’d reached into the depths of his being, then, surrounded by ligaments and broken wheels, and all he manages to pull up is an empty hand; dark, consuming. It is not part of his domain to give, and Thanatos doesn’t know why he’d ever let himself believe otherwise.

Zagreus says something. He passes a hand over Thanatos’ own, the one that is holding the fruit. Their skin sticks inelegant. 

“I want you,” Thanatos says. He closes his eyes with more force perhaps than necessary. There is a distinct lyricism to the words that make it pleasant to say. _I want you. I want you._

Zagreus’ touch is searing. It passes over his jaw. “Than,” he says. 

His mouth is furnace-warm. Thanatos settles into it even as their thighs press, and he thinks, his mind soft around the edges, that he could make a home in it. That they are home. That Zagreus is finally home. It is something biting and deep, and builds unhurried, for they have little care of the chariots that spin far above their heads. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you managed to get through this incredibly self-indulgent fic-- thank you, you're amazing!
> 
> the title is based on 'At my side' by Bokusui Wakayama


End file.
